


Son of Durin

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Durin the Deathless - Freeform, Gen, Khazâd October, longbeards, seven fathers of the dwarves, the seven fathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a son of Durin had been a mantle Thorin had worn from his earliest childhood. It was an honour, and a unique merit that removed him from his peers. But when he met Durin in the Halls of Mandos, Thorin was hesitant. Nay, he was more than merely hesitant. If there had been any opportunity to escape, to avoid this meeting without insulting his forebear, he would have taken it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Durin

Being a son of Durin had been a mantle that Thorin had worn from his earliest childhood. It was an honour, and a unique merit that removed him from his peers. As his grandfather kept pointing out, he was the first among them all, distinguished by his heritage, by the blood that flowed in his vein, by the nature of the rock his soul was hewn from. However, being a son of Durin was also a heavy yoke that Thorin had worn even in his earliest memories. Even when he was still a mere dwarfling, wandering through the endless halls of Erebor, his father kept reminding him of the responsibility that came with his inheritance. The legacy of Durin had settled even heavier upon his shoulders in the days of their exile. Every one of his actions was judged by the reflection it cast upon the line of Durin, his forefather and father of all the Longbeards, the first even among the great Dwarven lords created by Mahal himself.

Tears and weakness were unworthy of a son of Durin, he learned that very early on and he hardly ever forgot it. His father and grandfather saw to that. He cried when his mother died and then again at Azanulbizar, when so many had fallen and he found himself in an unfamiliar forest cradling the shattered head of his younger brother. He was weak then, not a true son of Durin, not the one he had been trying to be for all his life. So he tried harder from then on. He remained strong and stoic almost to the end of his life. Almost.

When first his grandfather and then his father deteriorated in front of his eyes, the burden on Thorin’s shoulders grew heavier. They had stumbled, had failed as true sons of Durin and now the task was his. He had to redeem the honour of their line, had to show himself worthy of his ancient lineage, of the gift that Mahal himself had bestowed upon him. He had to work harder, had to be good enough for three Dwarves. He tried, he tried so hard to be worthy of the name of Durin, tried with all his might and for a while it seemed achievable. Just one more victory, just one more quest and he would finally be a true son of Durin, would have earned the right to call himself that. Being a son of Durin, it was all he ever wanted, and then again, it was all he ever feared.

He failed. Where his grandfather and father had crumbled like eroding mountainside, he fell with the might of an earthquake that laid waste to whole lands. Mahals hammer struck him with all the might that was appropriate for such a spectacular failure of one of his children.

When he met Durin in the Halls of Mandos, Thorin was hesitant. Nay, he was more than merely hesitant. If there had been any opportunity to escape, to avoid this meeting without insulting his forebear, he would have taken it. However, no such opportunity presented itself and he took it as part of the penance for his many sins.

Durin was a mighty Dwarf indeed, lush dark hair and a forked beard so long it was tucked into his belt, though Thorin noted almost guiltily that he was a good hand taller than his forefather. Nevertheless, Durin was an imposing figure, broad-chested and muscular, with boots so large and heavy they made the flagstones quake with every step.

“Hail Durin,” Thorin said, trying to keep is voice from shaking. He bowed low and remained with his eyes cast towards the ground. It was not a cowardly action. He was merely showing his ancestor the respect he was due. He had spoken quietly, hoping to keep his chastisement a private affair.

“Greetings, my son,” Durin bellowed, his voice making the delicate arches quiver. He unceremoniously hauled Thorin upright and pulled him into a crushing embrace, one that probably would have done harm to a less sturdy creature, or indeed any creature that was not dead already.

“We meet too early and yet I have to admit, I have been looking forward to this day for many a year,” Durin said, holding Thorin at arm’s length and staring at him appraisingly. Thorin slumped slightly so as to not appear taller than the Lord Father of all the Longbeards.

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance,” he said. “What little service I may provide is all yours, oh Durin.”

“And some service it has been, young Thorin,” Durin boomed. Thorin tried to straighten his spine, to receive his well-deserved condemnation like a proper Dwarf and not like a simpering coward. “Some service indeed.”

“I recognise that my failures are manifold and my shortcomings cannot even be reckoned, but you have my word that I shall gladly accept whatever judgement you cast upon me, and I shall work tirelessly to redeem the honour of your line in whatever way you see fit,” Thorin said with another bow. Nobody had ever taught him how to behave in the company of Durin the Deathless and he desperately tried to muster his best Ereborean manners. Maybe he should be on the floor. Was he even worthy of treading on the same ground as the Lord Father himself? Thorin was unsure, but even in his frantic thoughts he noticed that Durin had paused at his last words. He evidently had to think about an appropriate punishment. Even in all the ages of his existence, failure to the scale of Thorin’s must have been a rarity.

“Whatever for, my good Dwarf?” Durin asked and without warning he slapped Thorin’s shoulder hard enough to make his bones creak. “Among my many sons you are one of the greatest!” Thorin looked at him in utter astonishment and Durin continued “And I don’t just mean your extraordinary height though I have to say that you Third Age Dwarves seem to have forgotten what it means to be a Dwarf, you all are rather long in the limb, if I dare say so. A minor design flaw obviously, fine Dwarves, the whole lot, and you my son, you in particular. One of the greatest indeed, and not just in stature!”

“But I... I failed you!”

“What makes you say that, my dear son?”

“Erebor, I... I never did become her proper king, I never restored the honour of your line,” Thorin hesitated for a moment before battling on. “I destroyed your line, because of my failure the direct line of Durin no longer thrives in Middle Earth. It came to an end with me. After all those ages, I...”

He could not continue, emotion choking him as the full enormity of his deeds hung in the still air between them. He had squandered the great inheritance of the formidable Dwarf in front of him. He had failed the line of Durin.

“Now, now, my boy, I pray let me be the judge of any failure of my line,” Durin said. “It is indeed a pity that your fine young sister-sons shared your fate, but naught can be done to change that now, and I dare say they will be a joy to have around. And while I would have wished upon you the joys of fatherhood, I can hardly be called upon to pass judgement in that matter. What you call the direct line of Durin was never of my flesh, for if you remember correctly, the Maker saw fit to let my lie alone, to create thirteen of us and leave me to find my line by other means. And they came indeed and joined me and became my family even as my brothers and sisters founded great lines of their own flesh and blood, I ever took those in who were the bravest and craftiest, and cunning beyond measure. The Longbeards’ foundation lay in the rock itself, not in the fickle seed of a single Dwarf. No judgement falls upon you, Thorin, for leaving the mantle of leadership to your cousin, who by all accounts is a Dwarf worthy of such distinction.”

Thorin did indeed remember, had studied the Thirteen even in his childhood, the Seven Fathers and the Six Mothers, but they had forever claimed the heritage of Durin and it had never occurred to him that a line could rest in more than blood.

“What binds us?” he asked tonelessly.

“What binds us is the desire to do well,” Durin explained. “A Longbeard is anyone who desires to be one. What binds us much stronger than blood is the desire to defend our home and our treasures.”

Thorin hung his head again. “I failed in that as well,” he said. “I was a pure defender of Erebor and never sat upon her throne as I should have.”

“On the contrary,” Durin replied. “You reclaimed Erebor and that alone is a great deed for any Dwarf. But I would not love you any less if you had not been granted success in your quest, for in truth what is Erebor?”

“It is our ancestral home,” Thorin answered, even though he was not sure the question required an answer.

“Consider now the long measure of the ages,” Durin said patiently. “What is Erebor but a speck in the dust of time—though a particularly exquisite speck, I might add? Only after Khazad-dûm was lost did it become a proper kingdom in its own right and even then your namesake abandoned it for many long years and only your grandfather reclaimed it. Think of the place of my own awakening, Thorin. Long has Gundabad been lost, but our people still prospered. Nay, I shed no tears for Erebor, stunning though it undoubtedly is nowadays!”

“But I did not guard our home, and neither did I amass any treasure. I stand before you a pauper, who barely recognised mithril when he touched it again after so many years.”

Durin directed him down the corridor then and together they walked along the never-ending tapestries in which the magic of Vairë, the ever-weaver illustrated the history of their people. Thorin noted that Durin paused not in front of battles and great victories, but in front of celebrations, in front of the portraits of families. At length, Durin started the conversation again.

“You are mighty at the anvil, Thorin,” he said and it was clearly a statement that was not to be denied even as Thorin’s modesty rebelled. “A good craftsman works with what he is given and displays his art to the best of his ability, drawing out the best qualities in the materials he has been given,” Durin continued. “Is that not so?”

“Aye,” Thorin confirmed. “It is a poor craftsman who blames his tools.”

“Now then, Thorin, why would I chastise you for the work you have done when so clearly you worked to the best of your ability and to the best of the materials that you were given? Where would the justice be in that?”

Thorin had no answer to that. “I bow to your wisdom, Lord Father,” he said.

“You need not bow,” Durin answered. “But I much desire to make you see the injustice you do yourself. You worked a great art not only in the iron tools and weapons you forged, but also in much more precious materials.”

“I had no precious materials,” Thorin said grimly. “What gems we had we sold on the road, trading rubies for bread and sapphires for shelter. I rarely laid hand on gold in my life and mithril I only saw again when we returned to Erebor.”

“Look around you,” Durin said and Thorin did so, laying eyes upon many smiling faces, upon little woven depictions of brother and parents and neighbours and friends. “The true treasures cannot be found in a mountain, no matter how deep you delve. The true treasures rest in the hearts of the Longbeards. And you worked that material well, Thorin. You did well by our people and for that alone you are a truly worthy son of Durin.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
